


My Boyfriend's Back

by tilla123



Series: Wedding Bell Blues [3]
Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 12:05:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18590941
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tilla123/pseuds/tilla123
Summary: Standard disclaimers apply. The boys still aren’t mine and hope is fading fast. They belong to the folks at Rysher and Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis, for a while at least. We’ll see what happens at the end of the season. If they become free agents, I’m putting in a bid. For now, I’m merely borrowing them and will return them unharmed when I’m through. Sorry, guys, there is still no explicit sex to be found - just some very mild m/m implications. Whatever there is here that is more than implication, I owe to Maygra for her unflagging devotion to detail and the shining example she has provided in the writing of this stuff. I can only apologize that my lessons are taking so long to actually bear fruit.Many thanks are offered up on the altar of proper English grammar and coherency to my betas Andie P, Juanita, Sandi, Olympia and Maygra. Without them this story would make even less sense than it does.Oh, I live for feedback folks, so please e-mail me with any comments, suggestions, etc. Keep the flames low, though, please. I burn easily.





	My Boyfriend's Back

Madame de Lancie was aghast. The horror, the shame, the cruelty of the Fates was almost too much to be borne. The Scotsman, a most despicable and lecherous man, had very nearly ravished her poor innocent Adam right there in the cell - in full view of the video recorders stationed in the corridor. No one had heard the boy cry out. No one had even suspected the foul deed being perpetrated upon her defenseless young neighbor. Dearest Adam had merely endeavored to clean the filthy brute and the fiend had pounced upon him, practically tearing the clothing from his body. Adam had seemed to find it amusing at first, but she was sure the shock had been such he was unaware of his predicament - until it was too late. Blessed Mary, she thought. It had been merely the most fortunate of coincidences her nephew, Michel, and his partner had brought another prisoner into the corridor at that precise instant and rescued her darling Adam.  
Of course, Adam had been suitably horrified and the depraved Scot somewhat chastened and remorseful. Perhaps the man was not so very much depraved after all. Perhaps, it was as Adam said - Monsieur MacLeod merely had a very active libido and a most unrestrained physicality in expressing himself. He was, after all, from the barbarous North of a most unrefined country and could hardly be expected to behave as a proper gentleman - even with such a paragon as cher Adam. All this Adam had explained to her in his innocence - an innocence that would have been sorely challenged had not Constable LaCroix arrived at that precise moment and rescued him from the Scotsman’s mad grasp. Her nephew had been most shocked but as Adam had insisted there was nothing amiss, he had been unable to do more than continue to monitor the recording devices and report back to her the event which had taken place. She almost wished she had not requested a viewing of the tape - although, it did afford her an excellent view of what Adam found so attractive in the Scot.  
Adam was such a good boy, Madame thought sadly, such a sweet, naïve and trusting young man. He had tried so hard to convince her the Scotsman was an honorable man, a good Catholic despite being married and divorced so many times and truly fond of Le Petit. Le Petit was most inordinately fond of the Scot, of that she was certain. She could only hope her young tenant would not be scarred, emotionally, for life by the man’s brutality. He had even convinced her to assist in the packing of a picnic luncheon for him to take to the Scot, as he was certain the police were not feeding him properly. Bah! If they had fed him nothing but bread-and-water, it would have been too much.

Duncan sat quietly in the passenger seat of the little Citroen. Methos had said not a word, since picking him up at the police station after the hearing and Mac was singularly grateful for the quiet. It gave him time to think, time to brood, and time to wallow in guilt and shame and misery. He reveled in it, thoroughly.  
He was as grateful for the silence as he had been for the new suit Methos had delivered with his own blessed hands so that Duncan need not face justice - and the press - looking like the filthy pervert they all assumed him to be. Indeed, in that suit, Duncan had looked every bit the stalwart defender of the innocent - most of them anyway; there was one innocent he hadn’t managed to defend well at all - he had always - until recently anyway - believed himself to be. Why had it fallen to Methos to defend his honor and his virtue? He had used to be so good at it. Perhaps, MacLeod, because you don’t believe in it yourself anymore?  
He coughed and cleared his throat, feeling damned lucky they hadn’t chosen to use that tape as evidence in the hearing. Methos had - somehow - managed to convince the prosecuting attorney it would do more damage to Le Petit than to the villain they were attempting to incarcerate. He stole a glance at his lover. Methos stared straight ahead, never taking his eyes from the road even though he must feel Duncan looking at him. That, alone, was enough to give the Highlander pause. Methos ordinarily drove like a maniac, chattering like a magpie, his attention wavering constantly from his passengers to the road and back again. It was a wonder he hadn’t killed himself - and half of Paris - long before this.  
Duncan sighed and turned his gaze back to the window and his thoughts back to the hearing. He had looked like a pillar of the community in that suit and the Fates had seen fit to let that be all the court had seen and so they had judged him not guilty and let him go. They’d missed entirely the look Methos cast at him while delivering his testimony - a look of such long-suffering love and devotion they had to have been blind to miss it. Duncan certainly did not and it cut him to the quick that he could have spoken to his friend so cruelly in that wretched cell. It was a look totally without recrimination for the horrid slander the Highlander had spoken in his distress - which of course made him feel all the more guilty. Och, but the man surely knew how to heap coals of fire on a man’s head, that he did indeed. That was the only thing he had to excuse himself - he’d let mere physical need overpower his normal even-temper and snapped out a judgment he knew was totally unfounded. Methos would never cheat on him - no matter the circumstances - at least, he didn’t think he would. He certainly hoped he would not - cheat, that is.  
He was as grateful for the silence now as he had been for his lover’s testimony at that cursed hearing. No matter how the prosecution worded their ugly questions, Adam had insisted - politely but firmly - that no, he had not been abducted; he had gone quite willingly to the Scot’s barge. Yes, he disliked the water and living on it made him ill, but the barge was MacLeod’s home and Mac had asked him to share it with him and put like that he could hardly see any way to refuse nor did he particularly want to do so. No, the Scot had never taken advantage of him; Mac was always a perfect gentleman - kind and considerate and a most honorable man. Yes, they had known each other for some time before anything other than friendship had passed between them and no, Adam was not ashamed in the least of his feelings for this son of the Highlands. He only hoped Duncan was not ashamed of him or so horrified by the aspersions cast upon him by those who should know better that he decided he would be better off without Adam. Madame de Lancie had nearly fainted at the implication that anyone would be better off without cher Adam and been carried weeping from the courtroom. Duncan had been ridiculously pleased to see her go.  
They parked on the quay and Duncan slid out hurriedly, rushing for the barge rather than face his friend while Methos secured the car behind them. Unfortunately for the Highlander, the cabin door was locked up tighter than a kettledrum and Methos had the keys. So, he was forced to wait with eyes downcast and shoulders slumped while the Oldest Immortal strolled along the pier and ambled his way up the gangplank to let them both in.  
"I know you’re tired, Mac," the Old Man began, hanging up his coat as they entered the living quarters.  
"Exhausted actually, Methos," Duncan replied, stripping off his clothes and collapsing onto the bed. "Can we talk later?" He did not really want to talk at all. He wanted to forget the whole ugly incident, wipe the last five days out of his memory entirely - except perhaps for the ugly things he’d said to Adam there in the cell. He deserved to remember them. He deserved to remember how he’d been unceremoniously left hanging - as it were - right in the middle of what he’d hoped would be some of the best sex he’d had all week. Of course, he could hardly blame Methos for leaving in such a hurry after what he’d said to him.  
Methos nodded. "Of course, Mac, if that’s what you want." MacLeod nodded back, dropping his head down onto the pillow. Methos picked up the suit and hung it neatly over the chair by the bed. "I can stay a day or two while you recuperate, Highlander, and then move back to the apartment." Mac’s eyes flew open at that and he watched warily as Methos picked up the shirt, socks and underwear tossing them single-handed into the hamper. Two points for Methos. "Madame has said she’d hold it for me until something was resolved permanently."  
Duncan froze then and his heart nearly stopped in his chest as Methos eased his long frame down onto the bed beside him and pulled the covers up over his friend, rubbing the broad back and laying little kisses along his neck and shoulders. "I think it has, don’t you Duncan? Been resolved permanently, I mean." Another light kiss and Duncan moaned softly. "Sure it has. You are an honorable gentleman - proven this day in a court of law. I, on the other hand, am an ungrateful tart who would - apparently - hustle all over Paris boffing any and all willing while my unsuspecting lover and benefactor languishes in a prison cell. Doesn’t that about sum it up?"  
Duncan groaned as the sweet lips were removed. God but the man was a closet sadist if ever there was one. Or maybe this was his way of coming out of the closet? Next thing anyone knew, he’d be wanting to experiment with whips and chains and pincers and hot pokers, too, probably. Oh, wait - he’d done that for years - centuries actually - with Kronos millennia ago - it’d be old hat by now.  
Methos leaned down, stretching himself out along the Highlander and looked deep into the coffee-brown eyes. "Under the circumstances, Duncan my love, I really don’t see how you can possibly consider putting up with me any longer. So, I’ll be out and about doing that dating thing you mentioned as soon as you’ve recovered from your dreadful ordeal." Long dark lashes fluttered not a breath away from Duncan’s face. "I’m really rather looking forward to it, MacLeod - it’s been a long time since I actually dated anyone. Should be interesting." He smiled sweetly and made to rise, but Duncan clutched desperately at his hands.  
"No you don’t Methos," the Highlander muttered heaving his broad frame up until he was almost sitting. "Ye’ll not be going out getting yersel’ into God only knows what trouble playing fast and loose in bars and clubs and god-knows-what with no one there to show ye the ropes."  
Methos smiled slightly as the Scot’s fingers twined with his. "Oh no? And what makes you think I need to be shown the ropes?"  
"Nothing, I mean everything. Ye’ve been out of circulation a long time, Methos. Ye need someone to watch yer back." Duncan was firm - very firm - uncomfortably firm. How the hell did Methos do this to him anyway? He’d never in all his four hundred years had another man get to him this way. No one, other than Tessa, had ever had the ability to get him so thoroughly hot and hard with just a smile or a toss of their head, a sigh or a twinkle in their eye. He leaned forward and placed a kiss along the long smooth throat and Methos shivered delicately.  
"Wash my back did you say, Highlander? Sounds nice - are you volunteering?" He smiled lazily and arched back curving his spine sinuously as Duncan rolled forward.  
"I said watch yer back, Pierson," Duncan retorted barely catching them both in time to save a nasty tumble to the hard flooring beneath them. "Although washing yer back might prove interesting at that," he muttered as the long lashes fluttered flirtatiously and a damp finger trailed up and down his torso from sternum to groin - or was that groan - and back again. Methos’ tongue flickered gently in its wake and Duncan did groan out loud, pushing at the dark head.  
"I certainly enjoy watching yer back, Methos," he gasped as the tongue circled his manhood. "Especially when yer running in them skimpy little jogging shorts." Methos blinked. "Or when yer limbering up after a spar and the sweats are sliding just so down yer hips and yer all wet and yer hair is damp and yer clothes are stickin’ to ye and I can see every muscle and tendon."  
Methos blushed - a deep vibrant red - but the talented tongue ceased only for a moment. "You’re supposed to be doing limbering exercises of your own MacLeod not watching me."  
"Aye," Mac agreed. "But I can do both at once. I don’t let mesel’ get distracted by a nice pair of legs that go all the way up to here," and he clutched Methos’ bum which made the old man jump, "and make an ass out themselves." He grinned and gasped again as teeth skimmed along his shaft. "Nice ass it is, too."  
"Thanks," Methos said sincerely and sat up.  
Duncan groaned and caught the angular face in both hands drawing him down for a deep probing kiss. No more talk, please, Methos. There were much more important things to do. Methos’ mouth opened under his and their tongues swirled together. The old man tasted of chocolate and cinnamon with a faint hint of raspberries. Where had raspberries come from in the middle of winter?  
Duncan’s stomach growled and Methos laughed and pulled away. "Hungry?" The Highlander nodded and Methos stood. "I’ll fix you something to eat then. You get some rest."  
"Methos." He caught at the other man’s sweater before he could make good his escape. "I don’t need to rest. And, while I am hungry, there’s something else I’ve missed a good deal more than I’ve missed food you know."  
Methos rested his hands on his hips and cocked his head to one side. "Really, Highlander? I’ve no idea what that might be."  
"Shall I tell ye then?" He drew his friend closer tugging at the bulky knit. Methos nodded - eyes wide and sparkling. "I’ve missed you." A tug downward and Methos was on his knees, hands braced against Mac’s thighs. "I’ve missed this," Mac said gruffly planting a kiss on the prominent beak. "And this." His tongue swirled around one delicate ear and trailed down the long pale column of throat. "And this." He slipped inside the sweet mouth again and wrapped his arms around his friend’s narrow waist.  
"Fiddle, Mac," Methos muttered, pouting, when they broke for air. "I was looking forward to dating."

Mac was asleep when he came back from the kitchen with sandwiches and two mugs of soup - the hearty homemade kind with lots of vegetables and meat in it. Gods, he was turning into a regular Martha Stewart - cooking, scrubbing, mending, mopping - and Mac hadn’t even noticed. He sighed and looked around - new curtains and slipcovers would be a nice addition and there was that little fabric shop, just three blocks down from Joe and Maurice’s club. He wondered if the Highlander would let him decorate the loft above the dojo, too - if they were going to be ‘sharing’ there, that is. He doubted Seacouver would be as open-minded as Paris was about their arrangement and Mac was nothing if not practical and conservative.  
He flopped down in a chair beside the bed and watched his Highland warrior sleep - like a baby, he thought - the sleep of the pure and innocent. Well, perhaps not so pure and innocent at that. He grinned to himself and took a bite of sandwich, running the fingers of one hand through the dark mane spread out over the pillow. He loved the feel of Mac’s hair - it was so soft and thick and wavy - not at all like his own short brush. The Highlander slept on his stomach and seeing his hair spread out like that gave Methos a sudden inspiration. Mac would probably kill him for this when he woke up, but it might be worth it to see the bra’e warrior with his hair pulled tight back from his face. He cocked his head to one side - deciding - one braid or two? The decision did not take long.  
He stood up then and, grabbing a comb and brush from the dresser, smiled as he began brushing and braiding his lover’s long thick hair. Two braids - one on either side - just like when Duncan lived with that Indian tribe - the Lakota or Ladoga, something like that at any rate; he was never sure about the names of the American tribes. He certainly hoped it did not bring back painful memories for the Highlander. He hummed a little Sumerian - or was it Akkadian or perhaps Minoan - lullaby while he combed, brushed and braided. Hell, he couldn’t remember the names of the tribes he grew up with either.  
"Ye’re a dead man, Pierson," mumbled a voice from the depth of the pillow and MacLeod rose up like Leviathan from the Pit as Methos gasped in dismay and stumbled back only to trip over the thrice-damned chair and land on his bum - again. MacLeod was off the bed in an instant, the heavy braids swaying back and forth over the sturdy shoulders and Methos could only sit and stare - mesmerized - as his lover advanced upon him.  
"It was a joke, MacLeod," he croaked, scooting backwards.  
The Highlander glared down at him. "I’m not laughing."  
"So I see." He kept inching back, trying to put some distance between his lover and himself, until he fetched up against the dresser and could go no further. He glanced down and away from the Scot’s angry eyes. It was no wonder MacLeod hadn’t been able to sleep. "Need some help with that?" He looked up with a smile and the Highlander nodded.  
"Bed," MacLeod said urgently grasping his friend’s hands and pulling him to his feet. "Now."

Madame paced the floor in Adam’s apartment. The fish and their tanks were gone, as were all Adam’s pretty plants. Why had she not noticed this before? Had the Scot taken them or Adam? She wrung her hands. Poor Adam! He had disappeared again right after the hearing, in the horrible Scotsman’s little car. She was sure the Scot was abusing him and poor Adam was simply too innocent to realize it. That was why he had testified as he did at the hearing - he did not understand the callousness and depravity of such men, how they could take an innocent young heart and break it into bits with no thought at all. He most certainly was unaware of the ‘darker side of men’s desires’ - as Jeanette referred to such individuals’ behavior. He had no experience with the type of man this MacLeod person must be and believed only the best of one he thought was his friend.  
She smiled grimly. There was yet hope. The nefarious Scotsman may have had his way with her poor young friend at some time in their past, but Genevieve Marie-Louise Gillette de Lancie would leave no stone unturned, no wile unpracticed and no trap unsprung in her endeavors to restore the boy’s honor. It was well the poor love-struck child had not convinced her to drop the charges against the monster; although - one would think - the videotape should have been evidence enough to send the man to the guillotine for his crimes. The police had managed to hold the Scot for another day at least, during which time she had endeavored to convince Adam of the foolishness of his devotion. But, the day of the hearing had arrived and Adam had refused to testify to the man’s depravity leaving the courts no choice but to set free the fiend.  
She sighed. There must be something she could do to rescue the boy from himself and the Scot. Surely there was someone he would listen to who could explain the danger he was in and gently guide him out of it. She sat down at the desk and searched through the papers lying upon it. The computer was also missing. Either the Scot was more thorough than she would have imagined or Adam had indeed gone willingly to his doom. That thought sent chills down her spine and made her heart pound alarmingly in her chest. That she could not have seen the infatuation for what it was and had actually encouraged the Scot to make advances to her young friend brought tears to her eyes. She had suggested they take up residence together - never dreaming Adam would leave his cozy apartment to live with his friend - and now his life was in shambles. The publicity of the trial had ruined him. The committee would never give him tenure unless she could remedy the mistake.  
She found Adam’s little phone book buried under some papers with very strange writing on them - undoubtedly more of Adam’s research - and flipped quickly through the pages. There appeared to be the names of several women - co-workers and fellow students perhaps - but she doubted any of them would be of help under the circumstances and the symbols and notations by some of the names meant nothing to her. She sighed sadly.  
There was nothing here - not one name she could recognize - no one whose aid she might enlist to send the Scot off and bring dearest Adam back into the embrace of those who cared for him. Until - oh, saints be praised - she saw one name, one name only she thought she remembered Adam mentioning - a gentleman who had worked with him at the historical society. Mr. Dawson was a man of some importance in the Societe so Adam had said - a Directeur Regional or some such thing - and so should have some influence over the boy even though Adam no longer worked for them. She smiled grimly and picked up the phone.

Methos was laughing, his mouth making funny little humming noises around MacLeod’s thick shaft. Pleasant as it was, this was not what the Highlander wanted at the moment. "Please, Methos, can ye no stop the music?" His hands grasped the dark hair and pulled Methos loose. Methos shook his head and bent once more to his task. "Not what I had in mind exactly, old man," the Highlander gasped as the talented mouth seemed to swallow him whole once more.  
"Oh, and what did you have in mind, you lech?" Methos asked looking up with a grin. "A quick roll in the hay? Is that all I’m good for now?" He sat back on his heels and folded his arms across his chest. "I think I’d prefer a slow easy seduction Mac. Woo me." MacLeod stared. "Come on, Mac, tell me how much you want me." The old man rocked back further and nearly fell off the bed.  
Mac grabbed for his lover and fell back with a ‘oooomph’ as Methos landed on top of him. This was more like it. "Aye, I want ye. How kin ye doubt it, Methos? Look at me."  
Methos frowned. "Well, you certainly want something, Mac. Are you sure it’s me or would any warm body do?" He’d still not entirely forgotten that incident in Duncan’s cell, but he could forgive - perhaps. It was, after all, in his nature even if not in the Highlander’s. He stroked his hands down the Highlander’s broad chest, tweaking the nipples and combing through the curly dark hair  
"It’s been days, Methos," MacLeod muttered under his breath grasping the fine-boned hands and rolling over so Methos was beneath him once more. "Five long and lonely days with no comfort or solace in sight save Rosie Palmer and her five daughters. You, of course, wouldn’t understand about that, would ye?" He looked down at his friend. Oh, God! He’d done it again. Methos’ eyes were shuttered, his breath coming in little gasps and his body rigid under Mac’s great weight. "I’m joking, Methos," Mac whispered urgently. "It’s a joke. I know you’d never do anything remotely like that." He shook him gently and bent closer. "Methos?"  
The green-gold eyes opened slowly and Methos gazed up at him. "You know, MacLeod," he hissed, wrapping his fingers tightly around the other’s wrists. "Sometimes I really hate you." He twisted suddenly and rolled MacLeod onto his side, pinning the bigger man’s arms behind him. "Do you have any idea how much that hurts, MacLeod? Joking or not, the whole idea really stinks - that you would think I’d fool around and expect you to remain pure and chaste. How could you think such a thing, MacLeod? Is that what you’d do? Cheat on me if I were out of the picture for a bit?" He bit back a snarl and jerked on the bigger man’s wrist. Mac yelped and Methos eased his grip slightly. "You know something, Mac?" Duncan shook his head. "I’ll bet - just a friendly wager, mind - I’ll bet I’ve been celibate a lot longer than you have." He smiled - showing teeth - and the Highlander froze. "How does 200 years at a stretch sound, Highlander? Think you can top that?"  
Duncan shook his head, appalled. No one could go without IT for that long - not even all the good Lord’s saints and the holy angels. Well, they could, but Methos was no saint, that much was certain. "What did you do, Methos? How could you live like that?"  
Methos released him then and rolled to his side once more, putting both hands over his eyes. "It’s not as difficult as you think, MacLeod - not if you have an incentive - and I had plenty of incentive. Living in a monastery does provide that, if little else." He laughed a little harshly and Mac wrapped his arms around the slender body - only to have Methos pull away once more. "Leave it, Mac. I’m not in the mood." He sighed and sat up. "I think we both need some breathing room, Highlander - some time apart so we can think this out. Lord knows I do, anyway. I can’t keep on like this and neither can you or we’ll wind up killing each other."  
Duncan was stunned. "Where will you go?" Good God, what was he saying? "Methos?"  
The old man shook his head. "I don’t know, Mac. I’d say my apartment," he chuckled wryly, "but if I go back there, Madame de Lancie will post a guard and never let me leave. And I know you’ll never see the inside of the place again, that much is certain." He stood and looked around a little dazedly, then pulled his duffel out of the closet and began to pack. Just a few things - he really wouldn’t be gone that long - he hoped. "I hear Bora Bora is nice this time of year or Tahiti. I could use a little sun."  
"Methos?"  
He stopped packing for a moment and looked back at the Highlander, then shook his head. "I’ll be in touch, MacLeod. Stay safe."

He’d walked blocks before he found himself outside Maurice’s club and decided to stop in for a quick pint - although that wasn’t what they called it here. He sighed. Perhaps Joe would let him stay with him for a few days - just until he got things between he and MacLeod straightened out in his head. He sighed again and stepped inside.  
"Sorry, we’re closed," a gruff voice shouted from the storage area behind the stage. "Open at 8:00."  
"Not here for a drink, Joe," Methos said quietly and Joe poked his head up in surprise.  
"Not here for a drink, Adam? You sick or somethin’?"  
The Ancient shook his head. "Not sick, Joe. Just in need of a small favor." He smiled slightly, hoping the Watcher wouldn’t feel a pressing need to ask too many questions. "I need a room for a few days and wondered if you could put me up."  
Joe hid a frown behind one hand. "Put you up, Adam? Is something wrong between you and Mac?" Damn, from what the old woman had said Adam and Mac were thicker than thieves, tighter than double-sided duct tape. What could have happened in a few short hours? Looked like he wouldn’t need to have that talk the concierge had asked him to have with ‘cher Adam’ after all.  
"A minor disagreement, Joe. Nothing too serious." At least he hoped it was nothing too serious. His running away like this might have increased - exponentially - the odds of it becoming so, however. Running - it seemed to be his method of choice for dealing with any and all problems. Running and hiding had served him well for millennia and it was too late to teach an old dog new tricks - too late for this old dog at any rate. He would never be a Duncan MacLeod - facing all challenges bravely and forthrightly. No, his method of operation was one of dodging and weaving, escape the line of fire and run like a rabbit from the hounds. Hell, it’s what had kept him alive for 5000 years - why mess with a sure thing?  
"Well, Adam," Joe huffed. "I don’t know. You do go through an awful lot of beer."  
"I’ll be as sober as a judge, Joe. I promise. Not one drop shall pass these lips unless you say so." Methos smiled winningly - he hoped. He also hoped Joe would not see fit to hold him to his promise.  
Dawson thought hard. "You’ve got to be one of the biggest slobs on the face of the planet and . . ."  
"I’ve changed, Joe." God! Had he ever. "I’m different now. Times change; people change; the whole bloody world changes." He certainly had changed. "You’d hardly recognize me, Dawson."  
Joe snorted. "Yeah, well I’ll believe that when I see it." Somehow it was much easier to believe Methos was no longer Death-on-a-Horse than it was to believe Adam Pierson might give up swilling beer, telling bad jokes and leaving his clothes lying around to mildew. Of course, Methos had had 3000 years plus to change; Adam had only had the last three.  
Methos batted his lashes. "Then I can stay with you, Joe? Say ‘yes’, pretty-please. I’ll cook and clean and be a proper little hausfrau. You’ll see."  
Western Regional Director for the Watchers, Joseph Dawson made a rude hummphing noise and glared at the other man. "Sure, Adam. But you get the couch and you make sure it’s straightened up every morning and you don’t leave anything laying around for somebody to trip over and . . ."  
"No evidence of our budding romance, is that it, Dawson? You don’t want any signs left about that you’re shacking up with another man? Is it my reputation you’re worried about or your own?" Methos sighed dramatically. "First MacLeod accuses me of playing fast-and-loose with his affections and now you’re ashamed to admit we’re living together." He sniffed and Joe Dawson limped out from behind the stage and whapped him over the head with a towel.  
"Stop that or you can find yourself another place to live," he growled, sounding more like MacLeod with every breath.  
"Yes, Massah Dawson," Methos grinned. "I’ll sho ‘nuff stop if’n y’all want me to." He batted his lashes again and Joe almost burst out laughing. It would never do to encourage the boy in his outrageous behavior. He did grin then. Imagine, thinking of Methos as a boy. He’d spent too much time thinking of the Old Man as a ‘twenty-something grad student’ apparently - couldn’t get his head around the other.  
"So, how much stuff are you bringing with you?"  
"Ah," Methos said slowly. "Is that your not-so-subtle way of asking how long I’m planning on staying?" He held up the valise. "Just what’s in here - a couple changes of underwear, a pair of jeans, a shirt and two sweaters. Little enough for you?" He slumped down into a chair and glanced up at the mortal. "Just enough for a couple of days - unless I do laundry. Am I allowed to do laundry, Joe?"  
"Feeling sorry for yourself, Adam? Did Mac throw you out or did you walk?"  
"I walked, Dawson," Methos said proudly. "He practically accused me of sleeping around while he was in jail and I decided I’d had enough of his judgments. I’ve been damn near as chaste as a nun the whole time we’ve been together - longer even - and it made me a little angry that he couldn’t see it, didn’t seem to want to see it. Soooo, here I am."  
Joe sighed. "So, when are you going back?"  
Methos blinked. "I don’t know, Joe. Hadn’t really thought about it." He gnawed at his lip, then looked up brightly. "When Mac begs me to come back?"  
"Oh, God!" Joe collapsed into a nearby chair and covered his face with his hands.

"Beg him, MacLeod, please!" Mac held the phone away from his ears and grimaced. "I’m beggin’ you, Mac, on my knees, I’m beggin’."  
"What’s the matter, Joe?" Duncan picked up the plate of crepes and hissed, dropping it back onto the table. "It’s only been two weeks for God’s sake. Surely you can put up with him a bit longer."  
"How long?" Joe peered around the bar. Hopefully Methos wouldn’t be strolling in any time soon bringing him soup like he had been for the last three days - ever since Joe had woken up one morning complaining of a head-cold.  
"Until he’s ready to come crawling back," Duncan said smugly.  
It ain’t gonna happen, MacLeod. "He’s driving me crazy, Mac. He cooks, he cleans, he darns my socks! I feel like I’m married." He stopped, suddenly aware of the deadly silence at the other end of the line. "It’s not like that, Mac," he said slowly, wishing he’d never made the call. Methos was right - Mac was a jealous bastard.  
"Really, Joe? And just how married are you feeling?" Joe could almost see the leer on the other end of the phone.  
"You gonna ask him back or not, Mac?"  
"Not. When he’s ready to come back, he can come crawling on his knees. I’m done begging." Not that he had, ever. It was not in him to beg. Mac dropped into the chair and picked up a bite of crepe in his fingers. He popped it into his mouth and gagged, spitting it back onto the plate. Something was definitely wrong. His appetite had been off for the past several days and he couldn’t begin to fathom why.  
Joe slammed down the receiver and cursed - loud and long. Damn stubborn Scot! Damn stubborn Welshman! Well, it’s what he’d put down on his Watcher application anyway - Adam Pierson - born Cardiff, Wales 1963. He couldn’t help it if it stuck. Damn the entire stubborn race of Immortals! Where did they get off dragging a mere mortal into their friggin’ eternal soap-opera lives?  
"Something wrong, Joe?" The soft honey baritone slid over his skin like warm silk and Joe looked up.  
"Naw, nothin’s wrong Adam. Just a little personal problem with a friend of mine." He couldn’t let Methos know he’d called Mac and he certainly couldn’t let him know what the Highlander had said vis-à-vis the two of them. There was no need for Methos to hurt any more than he already did.  
"You want to talk about it? I’ve got the ears for it, if you do." The old man waggled said ears with his fingers and Joe choked on a giggle. "I brought you soup, Joe," Methos said, handing over the thermos and a package of Saltines. "I can fetch some hot tea, if you’d like."  
"Thanks, mom, but I’m fine - really," Joe grumbled peering at the liquid inside the insulated container. "Chicken noodle again?"  
"It’s good for colds, Joe. Mothers swear by it." Methos sat down, stretching out his long legs and plucked at the imaginary lint on his greatcoat. "What did MacLeod have to say when you called him?"  
Dawson gaped. "Called him? What makes you think I’d call Mac?"  
"Because you can’t find anything in your house since I moved in. Because I’m driving you crazy - that is why you spend so much time down here, isn’t it? You never used to spend quite so much time in bars - even when you owned one back in Seacouver." The old man looked up, meeting Joe’s eyes and smiled. "He doesn’t want me back, does he?"  
It didn’t sound all that much like a question, so Joe ignored it. Besides, what was he gonna say? ‘No, Methos, he doesn’t want you back?’ ‘Sure he wants you back but he wants you to beg him to take you?’ "Hell, Adam, I don’t know. I can’t make heads or tails of anything Mac’s said for the last week or more."  
"I beg your pardon?"  
Joe groaned and dropped his head into his hands. "Just talkin’ to myself buddy."  
Dr. Pierson nodded. "Of course - just another sign of your impending mental breakdown. You really ought to see a doctor, Joe. I know several good psychiatrists I could recommend." Most of the best ones were dead, but there were a few good ones still around. Madame de Lancie’s little Jeanette would be one he’d recommend in about another five years. He bit at a hangnail and thought long and hard about where to go next. He’d hoped Duncan would want him back enough to at least ask, even if he wouldn’t beg. Hell, he hadn’t really wanted the Highlander to beg - Duncan would never demean himself so - but it would’ve been nice if he’d at least given some indication he was ready to kiss and make up. "Can you get MacLeod over here tomorrow?"  
Joe looked up, face brightening. "You two gonna make up?"  
Methos shook his head. "I doubt it. Just keep him here - or somewhere - long enough for me to get the rest of my things off the barge and I’ll be out of your hair. I don’t want to run into him there and have him accuse me of trying to steal the sterling along with everything else."

"What is it, Joe," Duncan said again - a bit more impatiently this time. He needed to get back. He had things to do on the barge - laundry, dishes, dusting. The place hadn’t had a good cleaning since Methos left and it looked it. Besides, he was running out of underwear. Well, if Dawson wasn’t going to continue the conversation they’d started on the phone this morning, he’d just head on home. The Highlander rose to go.  
Dawson ducked his head and polished the counter. "Adam’s leaving."  
Duncan froze. "What did you say?" He couldn’t believe his good fortune. Methos leaving Dawson’s little love-nest and coming back to him. "Adam’s leaving you?"  
Joe grunted. Damned obtuse Scot. "No, Adam is not leaving me. He’s leaving - period - as in Paris, as in probably Europe - as in most likely this hemisphere. Leaving, MacLeod - as in adios amigos, hasta lumbago, buenos tardes, arrivadirci roma, bon giorno, au revoir - you know, Mac, as in ‘so long gentle germs, it’s been good ta know ya’."  
"Leaving? Paris? Why?" Dawson was going to wear a hole in that counter if he wasn’t careful.  
"Why do you think, MacLeod?" He picked up the rag and shook it in the Highlander’s face. "Why should he stick around here waiting for you to call when you’ve made it perfectly obvious you’re not going to?"  
"Where will he go? Where is he now?"  
"Why should he wait here in this miserable climate when he could be off getting a tan in New Zealand or Tahiti," Joe continued almost as if he hadn’t heard the question. "It’s summer Down Under and he likes warm weather - it’s good for what ails him." He glanced up at the obtuse Scot. "He just had to pick up a few things - a couple changes of underwear, his fish, some plants - little personals, you know. He asked me to keep you here so you wouldn’t accuse him of trying to steal the silverware. You gonna accuse him of stealing the silver, Mac, or will it be sleeping with your best friend?"  
The Highlander had the grace to blush. "I never really thought that, Joe. I know you wouldn’t do anything like that."  
"But you’re not so sure about him? Damn, Mac, he’s had offers just in the two weeks you two have been apart - lots of ‘em - some right in this club with Maurice and me watching and he turned ‘em all down." So, he exaggerated a little. "Waitin’ for you, MacLeod. Rich or poor, young or old, male, female - it didn’t seem to matter. They weren’t Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, he wasn’t interested."  
"Better than one of those television soap operas, isn’t it Joe?"  
Dawson nodded. "More fun than All My Children, Days of Our Lives and General Hospital put together, Mac."  
"You think if I beg, he’ll come back?"  
Joe sunk deep into thought. "I don’t know, Mac. He’s waited two whole weeks; that’s a long time. You may have to get down on both knees - one ain’t gonna do it."

Methos stared around the barge. His fish tank and the plants were already out in Michel’s borrowed police van. Michel - and his partner, Robert - were, at the moment, engaging in a little pleasant extra-curricular activity at the Hotel de Lionnes. Michel had said he would return to pick up the van - and Adam - as soon as Adam had off-loaded his belongings from the barge. It would never do, he had explained, for an officer of the law to be seen removing anything - without a proper warrant - from another man’s domicile. Besides, he wanted some private time with Robert. Adam had, of course, understood completely.  
Madame deLancie’s nephew had been willing - nay, eager - to let Adam use the vehicle to make good his escape from the Highlander. Michel knew - and had made a great point of imparting the information to ‘cher Adam - how pleased his great-aunt would be that Le Petit had finally seen the light and was leaving the great hulking brute of a Scotsman. She would not be so pleased that ‘cher Adam’ was hopping the first flight out of town and heading off for parts unknown - or at least undisclosed.  
He sighed and stepped out the door and onto the deck. He took one last look around - wouldn’t do to forget anything - started down the gangplank - and stopped at the familiar thrum of Presence. Oh, hell! What was MacLeod doing here now?  
"Going somewhere?" Methos’ knees nearly buckled as Mac swung easily up the ramp - blocking his exit.  
"Just picking up a few things, MacLeod. Figured you wouldn’t want any reminders left laying around of past mistakes."  
Mac shook his head. "Why the van, Adam? You didn’t bring that much with you."  
Methos sighed. "Oh, you know. Figured I’d grab the TV while I was at it. You never watch it anyway and then there’s the stereo and all that nice artwork. I’m leaving most of the CDs - I really hate opera." He shrugged. "Might as well get something for all the effort I put into the last several weeks."  
"Inside, Pierson," the Highlander growled, shoving one hand hard into Methos’ chest.  
Methos shook his head. "Not a chance, Highlander."  
Duncan shoved harder. "Move, Adam." He stepped forward, still shoving, and Methos stepped back. "That’s it. One small step for a man . . ."  
"I know the drill, MacLeod." He balked at the door, gripping the doorway with both hands to brace himself. "I’m not going down there. You want my head, you’ll have to take it in broad daylight - in front of witnesses." He nodded out toward the quay where a young couple had stopped to watch the proceedings.  
"You see a sword anywhere, Adam?" The Highlander stepped back slightly and held his arms out to the sides. He turned around - slowly. "See? No sword, no guns, no weapons of any kind." He smiled. Methos relaxed and Duncan stepped forward quickly, pushing him down the steps. "I just want what’s mine, Methos, that’s all."  
He glanced back at the quay in time to see the young woman of the pair high-tailing it down the street. What the hell was up with her? You’d think she’d seen a murder being committed. The young man seemed to be standing his ground though and Mac caught a glint of sunlight on binoculars. Oh, Hell!  
"What’s yours?" Methos squawked. The only things out in that van are my fish, my plants and my books. Everything of yours is right here, still on your damn barge! I am not a thief, MacLeod - Amanda steals, not me."  
"Right," the Highlander growled, snatching at the satchel and emptying it out onto the bed. "Amanda steals and you pillage and burn."  
"Oh," Methos gasped, clutching at his chest. "And don’t forget rape. We were big on rape back then. It was one of our very favorite past-times. And when we couldn’t find a village full of women and children, why we’d practice on each other! That was always fun." He glared daggers at the other man. "I did so love being bottom, MacLeod or couldn’t you guess?" He stopped for a moment, breathing hard. "What are you doing?"  
"Conducting a search, Adam," Mac said evenly, pawing through the clothing scattered about the bed. "Turn around and put your hands on the wall."  
"What?" Methos gaped in surprise. "You can’t be serious!"  
"Just do it!" The old Immortal did as he was told, huffing in indignation. "Now, spread ‘em." Duncan patted him down and removed two swords, three knives- one long, two short - and a pair of pistols. "Nice little collection you have here, Adam," he muttered studying the weapons intently.  
"I believe in being prepared," Methos said primly. "It’s part of my charm." He turned his head, watching the Highlander. "You sure you don’t want to strip-search me?"  
Duncan frowned. "Now that you mention it, yes. Thank you for thinking of it."  
Methos groaned. "It was a joke, MacLeod." He sighed and turned around. "But, I can see you’re not laughing." He slipped off his coat and tossed it onto the bed. A heather-gray turtleneck followed in short order and a crew-neck sweater in dark plum swung past Mac’s head only seconds later. "You really have no sense of humor, Mac," the old man grumbled as he fussed with the buttons on the lilac-colored dress shirt and a pale rose henley.  
Mac stared - or would have had he not feared he’d be blinded. "And you have no sense of style, Adam. Who the hell dressed you this morning?"  
"I dressed myself this morning, Mac," Methos purred, slipping out of the navy denims. "My valet was a bit over-tired from his exertions and couldn’t be bothered - rough night last night." He glanced up at the Highlander. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"  
The Highlander clenched his fists and counted to ten. He clenched his teeth and counted ten more.  
"What, MacLeod," the old man urged. "Aren’t you going to say ‘We’re through’? That is the standard line, isn’t it?" He kicked his jeans across the floor and cocked his head. "Come on, MacLeod, you can say it. I know you can. Lord knows I’ve heard it often enough, I’ve rather come to expect it."  
"Sorry to disappoint you, Methos," Mac said quietly grabbing his shoulder and whirling him ‘round to face the wall once more. "Just close your eyes and this’ll all be over in a moment." He kicked off his shoes and slipped out of his own jeans while Methos waited, obviously impatient with the whole procedure.  
"I have a plane to catch, MacLeod," he said at last. "Can we get on with this?"  
"Is your ticket non-refundable, Adam?" Mac was all solicitation and Methos nearly turned around to look once more. "Uh, uh, uh. Eyes front, if you please."  
The old Immortal nodded. "Non-refundable and non-transferable. If I miss this plane, I’m screwed."  
"You are that, my lad," Duncan murmured running his broad hands over his friend’s pale slim back and tight round bum.  
"I beg your pardon," Adam squeaked as a finger inserted itself between his cheeks. "MacLeod?"  
"Hush. I’ve got to do this properly." His hands slipped around the narrow waist and began stroking the broad smooth chest, tweaking the nipples until they rose to tight hard nubs. Methos moaned and the Highlander grinned, resting his forehead against his friend’s back. His hands slipped lower, while his tongue darted along the back of Methos’ neck and slid down his spine.  
"MacLeod?" The old man gasped as the sturdy hands found his shaft and began to stroke and squeeze. "MacLeod, this is not the way you conduct a strip-search!"  
"It’s not?" The Highlander asked in surprise. "Are you sure? I’m almost positive this is the way it was done in . . ."  
"In what? Debbie Does Dallas, Detroit and Des Moines?" He did turn ‘round then and found his eyes glued to the lower reaches of Mac’s anatomy. "Happy to see me are you?" The Highlander nodded. "Really, Mac, this is about more than just great sex, you know." Duncan nodded again. "It’s about faith and trust and commitment, Mac. I trust you - you trust me or we don’t have anything." Mac nodded yet again. If he kept on nodding maybe Methos would shut up and they could pick up where they left off the last time. "Will you stop that before your head falls off? You look like one of those damned dogs they used to put in the back windows of old Chevrolets or Fords or whatever the hell they were. You know, the ones whose heads bobbed up and down on those little springs." The Highlander kept on nodding as Methos sank to his knees.  
"I’ll niver doubt you again, Adam," Duncan gasped gripping his lover’s shoulders tight enough to leave bruises.  
"Of course not, Mac," Methos murmured, stroking the silky shaft.  
"I love you, Adam," the Highlander moaned as the soft mouth engulfed him.  
"Hmmmm, hmmmm," Adam muttered, tongue and teeth skimming over the warm flesh.  
There was a pounding on the deck and both men looked up in surprise as two uniformed policemen burst through the door. "Oh good God," the Highlander gasped. "Not again!"  
<< To be continued >>  
________________________________________

**Author's Note:**

> Standard disclaimers apply. The boys still aren’t mine and hope is fading fast. They belong to the folks at Rysher and Mr. Panzer and Mr. Davis, for a while at least. We’ll see what happens at the end of the season. If they become free agents, I’m putting in a bid. For now, I’m merely borrowing them and will return them unharmed when I’m through. Sorry, guys, there is still no explicit sex to be found - just some very mild m/m implications. Whatever there is here that is more than implication, I owe to Maygra for her unflagging devotion to detail and the shining example she has provided in the writing of this stuff. I can only apologize that my lessons are taking so long to actually bear fruit.  
> Many thanks are offered up on the altar of proper English grammar and coherency to my betas Andie P, Juanita, Sandi, Olympia and Maygra. Without them this story would make even less sense than it does.  
> Oh, I live for feedback folks, so please e-mail me with any comments, suggestions, etc. Keep the flames low, though, please. I burn easily.


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